Downtime Warfare
By TMS
Copyright 2013 TMS
Cover design copyright TMS 2013 all rights reserved
TMS
https://thisistms.wordpress.com
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Arabian nights
Sole provider
Monsoon season
Dances with wolves
Harbour
Pianist
The night before
The rider
Unknown warlord
Pawpaw machete
Taiga hunter
War, life, death, gloom, the post apocalypse
About
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ARABIAN NIGHTS
Pleasant night,
Deep in the desert,
Away from the crumbling cities,
In our own tented village.
The scent of different hubbly flavours in the air,
Easy drunken conversations,
Relaxed laughs,
Calmness among the dunes,
Smelling the Arabian nights,
Closing eyes,
And for a moment imagining Persia,
In all its splendour.
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SOLE PROVIDER
Provider of necessities,
Home delights, to contraband,
The connection.
Vietnamese, American, British,
Whatever the product no problem
Quicker, faster, more discreet than military logistics.
The man supplying those who answer questions with,
“I know a guy who knows a guy.”
At war,
But never on duty.
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MONSOON SEASON
Pattering of rain.
Mellowed out,
Under tent,
Watermelon
Jungle knife
Vodka.
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DANCES WITH WOLVES
Back against tree,
Dressed no skin exposed.
Feet towards fire,
AK holstered,
Others on guard.
Snow slowly falling,
Complete quiet.
Hand moving through fur,
Ears, under chin, licked, nose.
Trusting to sleep if he sleeps.
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HARBOUR
Sun setting seaside Village.
Topside
Shirtless
Tanning,
Cigar in hand,
Observing the coast.
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PIANIST
Ad hoc headquarters,
Abandoned mansion,
Family portraits,
Rich carpets,
Expansive furniture.
Moments before receiving orders,
With the other Lt’s
Sunlit room back of the house,
Superiors strategizing, over the final decision,
Without thinking
Walking over to the piano,
Seat,
Look up, out into the garden,
Sleet.
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THE NIGHT BEFORE
The night before,
Deep into the dark.
Most far into a drunken sleep
Scattered snores across the beach camp,
Mellowed sea.
Sentries dozing.
Few whispers,
Women’s footsteps,
Last deep breaths,
Clenched together,
Celebrating the eve of death.
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THE RIDER
Blazing sun
Dry rugged plateau.
Helmet, goggles, bandana, backpack
Dirt bike rider.
No more stressed about charging the Toughbook,
Missing the satellite link twice,
Left it all way back.
Kicked up dust trail stretching for kilometres,
Unending horizons,
Not a tree or life in sight,
Bluest skies in the world.
Enjoying the long lost feeling of just riding,
Thinking about nothing else,
Barren terrain brining about calmness.
Border crossed or not crossed,
Whatever happens happens.
For now, at peace.
Leaving it all to the fuel tank
To decide when we should stress.
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UNKNOWN WARLORD
Exhausted,
Own shield and sword long lost
In the mêlée.
Too tired to search for loot,
Coated in blood,
One ear gone, still bleeding.
On the last piece of unbloodied grass,
Kicking near corpses, away.
Lying on back,
Breathing in deep,
Contemplating being too old for this shit.
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PAWPAW MACHETE
Monsoon
Rainy season
Chopper tent, invisible in the forest floor
Sudden stop.
Dripping jungle,
Slivers of moonlight,
Return of night sounds.
Sticky heat,
AK on floor,
Zipped up door,
Pawpaw machete.
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TAIGA HUNTER
Taiga forest
Human hunter
Blazing storm
Black wall of falling snow
Alternating between heat and night vision,
Old wolf tracking young pup,
Letting her go on for a bit,
Cigarette lit.
M16 holstered,
Silenced.
Steps easily traced.
End
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WAR, LIFE, DEATH, GLOOM, THE POST APOCALYPSE
Preview
War Life Death Gloom The Post Apocalypse, a series of poems that read like a single epic poem. Spanning the early day, when we all thought the war will pass, before the blasts, to the middle times of the cannibals, and the suicide of hope, to the post apocalypse, and the children born into it, who grew up to rule the new world. The era of War, The era of Life, The era of Death, The era of Gloom, The era of The Post Apocalypse.
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Pre dawn gloom
A million shells
3:45am
Disappear
Republic falling
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PRE DAWN GLOOM
Snow drizzling,
Freezing.
City, slowly, falling.
Skylines crumbling.
Sniper rifle on hold,
Webcams looking out into this broken world.
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A MILLION SHELLS
A million shells,
A night alight,
A thousand machine strong
Artillery bombardment choir
Screaming,
Roaring,
Laughing,
Stroking,
Crying
Howling into the night in disharmony
As they carelessly consume life upon life,
With each blast, asking if it’s enough,
If it’s enough master,
Yet always told to go on,
Go on hell spawn
Kill more, and more and more,
Until there’s no one left to kill
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3:45AM
Pause in the artillery bombardments
Small arms skirmishes
In the streets slowly,
Starting to die down.
Pattering rain,
Mud.
Nestled in between a rock and the elements.
Dirty,
Wet,
Exhausted.
Trying to light a smoke.
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DISAPPEAR
Shell sleep,
Through the artillery fire
Into the rain,
Sleet and snow.
Unmoved by the night time bombings
Over this broken city,
After years who still hears,
The crumbling of buildings,
The bad luck of those
Caught in the open by snipers.
When it’s late, and you’re
Close to being as happy,
As can be in this place.
Underground in a warm space,
With something in the stomach,
A buzz from the drinks,
Feint collective breathing,
A snore or two all around,
Leading the way to disappearing into sleep.
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REPUBLIC FALLING
Republic falling
Government broken
Parliament smouldering,
Citizens scattered
Reduced to refugee status
Across neighbours.
Families’ countries apart
Capital crumbling
Resuscitation failing.
Coughing up the blood of innocents
Who lived to fight one too many other days’.
All the tears suppressed by being strong
Let loose.
Death comes in the arms of a child soldier,
The disillusionment of we are men,
And we will fight to the bitter end.
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ABOUT
If you want to find out about me, follow the link
Downtime Warfare, what can I say, as a writer, and as a poet, I’m always looking for different ideas and perspectives that I can absorb and turn into poetry. As a poet I feel this is important, new and different ideas are important to push this art form forward. We can’t be writing about the same things that people wrote about ten twenty a year ago. We’ve got to be moving forward, pushing ourselves, experimenting, trying, learning, and breaking. Because poetry for me above everything else is a vehicle for transmitting and receiving ideas, and even though the old may be good, I’m always looking to gain and experience new ideas.
So poets write about fresh things.
Thought begets thought
Thanks